


In Love and Loathing

by asongtosaygoodbye



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, No Dialogue, Shame, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asongtosaygoodbye/pseuds/asongtosaygoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Hannibal and Will have sex right before Hannibal's arrest. Will feels shame because it feels so right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Love and Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for cannibalsnplaid on tumblr, responding to a prompt!

It tastes like motor oil between his teeth, heavy and acrid down his throat, tight into his lungs.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not again, not now. Not here.

The morning is cold and white and he's pulling on his pants, the jingle of the buckle loud in the sandpaper of the silence and he won't look at him. 

He's still stiff from the anesthetic and abuse, his ribs hurt from being thrown off that goddamn train and now he's trying to stand right with the dull ache between his legs, his sometimes lover's cum still a mess inside of him but they don't have time to clean up properly. They've already been careless enough and the FBI could be here any minute now, anywhere between a moment and an hour. Maybe not until the night, depending on when the word gets out, depending on if there were any witnesses.

Hannibal just watches him like a marvel, shark's eyes turned soft, soft as they always turn on him, dressing calmly, slowly. Indulging in the afterglow, in the quiet domesticity of it, curious.

Will glances over and back to the floor, pulls his shirt back on and starts to button it together, obscuring the jagged rift of scar tissue there, hating the way that it always reminds him that this can only ever end in blood. Hating the way Hannibal had traced it in the dawn like braille to a blind man, like the transcript of something sublime.

He doesn't know how to tell him to leave without lying, not now when the memory of his heretic hands is still etched hot into his marrow. He knows that they’re coming for him, for them, coming to end whatever this is, coming to end the way that they break over each other like waves on the rocks, like sordid prophets trying to drag a new religion from the salt of their mingled sweat.

This wasn't supposed to happen and it's wrong but all he wants is to slice him open down the middle and crawl in to sleep for a while, doomed and conjoined.


End file.
